


Sander Cohen Says: Would You Kindly

by Blackmoor



Category: BioShock
Genre: M/M, artistisness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-18
Updated: 2012-03-18
Packaged: 2017-11-02 03:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackmoor/pseuds/Blackmoor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My Muse cooked up an idea of something Sander might do if he had had this information</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sander Cohen Says: Would You Kindly

Sander Cohen says: Would You Kindly

Since Fontaine was dead and all Ryan and Atlas did was squabble, I helped myself to any and all things I could get into. Oh, some of the juicy bits I discovered.

The juiciest bit was about an embryo Fontaine had purchased. The embryo’s very essence was partially made from the essences of my beloved Ryan. Oh, what terrible things they did to Ryan’s poor baby; but when I met the end result, my muse became quite stimulated.

When Ryan left me in charge of my beloved Fort Frolic, my heart had soared; but as this senseless power struggle dragged on, I became quite bored. The only people left were tasteless splicers without enough brains to appreciate my work.

I started to run low on supplies; so in order to continue my work, I had to get creative. Those who littered Fort Frolic with their dead bodies had no hope for a proper burial, so I decided to give them a form of immortality. Using the plaster from the store rooms and wire to hold the body in a specific pose, I created new living statues.

I had just put the last statue of my masterpiece in place when my radio picked up something juicy. A plane had crashed and a survivor had found his way to this fair city. He had sided with Atlas’s merry band of neanderthals and was on his way to find Ryan.

This could be fun. I hadn’t had any fun for awhile. 

When the survivor had finally made it to Fort Frolic, I could only hope this tasty morsel didn’t disappoint me. He was well built and healthy with a soft pretty face, but that sweater was hideous.

“Ah, that's better. Atlas, Ryan, Atlas, Ryan, duh duh duh, duh duh duh. Time was you could get something decent on the radio. The artist has a duty to seduce the ear and delight the spirit, so say goodbye to those two blowhards, and hello to an evening with Sander Cohen! 

Now, I haven't seen a sign of real life down here in months. Let's see if you're just another Johnny-come-lately, or maybe something more delicious.”

He defeated the first horde of splicers I sent with ease. The scene had been awe inspiring. He fought with such determination and grace.

“Ohhhh, I can smell the malt vinegar in this one. I've waited so long for something tasty to come to this little burg, but all that pass are yokels and rubes.  
Where are my manners? Come in, come in! Sander Cohen awaits you, at the Fleet Hall!”

He wondered into the main atrium of Fort Frolic and I welcomed him with the spotlight treatment.

“WELCOME - to - Fort - Frolic!  
No need to thank me for jamming the transmission of those boors Atlas and Ryan. Let them have their squabble. The artist, yes, the artist, knows there is richer earth to till.  
For example, I test you, little moth, but for a reason. I test all my disciples. Some shine like galaxies, and some ... some burn like a moth at the flame! Come now, into my home.”  
He eventually found his way to the auditorium where I had a young Fitzpatrick plastered to a piano covered in dynamite. Sad that my new little moth walked in just as I reached my final straw with this failure.

Sander Cohen: No, no, NO!

Kyle Fitzpatrick: Mr. Cohen, please ...

Sander Cohen: SILENCE!!  
Allegro ... Allegro!  
Da, Da, Da, Da Da DA, Presto ... Presto!! No!! NO!!

Kyle Fitzpatrick: I'm trying ... please!

Sander Cohen: Once again, young Fitzpatrick.

Kyle Fitzpatrick: Oh, Cohen, you sick fuck!!! Let me out of this!

[Piano explodes]

Sander Cohen: Come down now, little moth. Life ... death ... the burden of the artist is to capture! See young Fitzpatrick here on the stage. Use your camera. Take him as he is now, so I may remember him.

My new little moth did as I asked and took a picture of this failure’s final moments. He took such a lovely photograph.

“And now you've got Fitzpatrick caught in his moment of glory. It seems you've got the eye of the shutterbug, little moth! Now head to the atrium and place his photograph in my masterpiece. And so our collaboration commences.”

I sent my little moth to the atrium to place the photo in my masterpiece.

“Do you see it? When I am dust, this is what they'll point to! My quadtych! My masterpiece. Go ahead. Don't be afraid. Touch it.

Yes, and there's Fitzpatrick, freed of his own kinks and defects. And here's the glorious news: this is just the moment of conception! Out in this place there are three men, all former disciples of mine, all connected by a common thread ... betrayal. Find them, little moth, and immortalize their mortality in my quadtych. Go. Once they've been sent to their reward, you shall go to yours ... and to Ryan.”

“You'll find Finnegan in cold storage. I discovered him in Marseilles in 1937. He admired my painting, I admired his ... carriage. He was the first of my disciples to bite the hand. Kill him any way you fancy, but I'd prefer it if you could involve burning in some fashion.”

I planned to watch every move this moth made. He move he made stirred my muse in directions you wouldn’t dare venture.

When Finnegan froze him in place, I took pause. He really would be a fabulous subject for art, but he would need a better pose then Finnegan had him.  
As soon as my moth was released from the ice, he brought a battle with fire. It was breathtaking.

“That was bracing. Take a photo of him and place it in the quadtych. I'm feeling full, like an expectant momma!”

After I said that I pondered what my little moth might look if he were swollen with child and leaning against the strong man that had impregnated him. Skin to skin in a sweet loving nature. Oh, how this moth drew out my muse’s darkest urges for sin.

Even though I didn’t care much for Atlas, I pictured him as the other man. He would cradle my little moth against himself in a gentle, careful embrace.

I snapped of that musing when I noticed my little moth had nearly been blown up by a bomb one of my other disciples had set. Of course, this moth could avoid flame and commenced to a twenty minute chase around the second floor until Silas had finally had had enough bullets pumped into him.

“He was a nasty one ... and my favorite. But I think I like him better this way. Take his damn photo, chop chop!   
You flutter all around the Fort, taking life as you go. You're not a moth, you're an angel. I've never painted an angel ... maybe I should.”

Speaking of wings, my muse took flight as I pictured my moth in his truest form. He was a fallen angel that had been trapped by chains in the darkest corners of this fallen city.

When he put the third photograph into my masterpiece, I felt like my muse was going to chew me a womb from which it could escape and soar. It was his fault! His flawless being was sending my muse in every direction and keeping us from the task at hand!

“That's three of four ... what's that look? You don't like it, do you? I don't need to be judged by you ... by anyone! Screw you! Screw all you fucking doubters! Here's what I say to all of you!!”

[After the battle]

“I'm sorry for that outburst. You'll have to forgive an old fool his artistic temperament. The birth is so close now. The labor pains can blur the judgement and drive the passions of even the finest spirits.”

When he finished killing the splicers I sent down there, I felt joy and irritation. I felt joy for he had survived and I got to see that splendid form in the motion of battle again; but damn it all to hell because now I wanted to paint him the form of a lonely dancer.

My final disciple had done a splendid job of hiding like the coward he was. My little moth wondered around for some time. I was getting bored and about to take more drastic measures until my little moth wondered into one of clubs.

The ghost of that bitch appeared before him. That bitch had Ryan’s attention, wanted his love and/or money, and would have had the honor of birthing his child. She was a whore with the delusional fantasy that a rich man would claim her as his and take her away. Though that probably would have happened had she not sold Ryan’s baby to Fontaine. She never had been the brightest and it landed her a permanent residence in the back room as the decaying bed fixture she always was.

But why was she appearing before my little moth?

It hit me like a mallet. I remembered that while I had been snoopy around Fontaine Futuristics, I had found files and audio diaries about the experiments they had performed on Ryan’s baby. One of them had been some form of age accelerance.

A diary from Dr. Suchong had said that at one year old, Ryan’s baby held the appearance of a healthy fit nineteen year old.  
Could she be showing her spirit to try to communicate with her spawn? Could this little moth be Ryan’s baby?  
If he was then…..

I smirked and leaned away from the security monitors. I just knew things were going to get to much more interesting.

Oh, Hector finally screwed up and my moth went running after him. Hector actually managed to give him a better workout then Silas had; but as I expected, my moth caught up, took him down, and would then pin up his downfall.

Unfortunately before he could do that, he needed to take out the Big Daddy that had been in the cross fire. I never liked those lugs stomping around here anyway, so the moth was doing me another favor. I knew exactly how I would repay him for all he had done for me.

When that metal brute fell, my little moth picked up the mutant child it had been looking after. My moth’s true purity shown through as he freed that child’s true soul from mutagenic torment and helped her to escape into the vents. His beauty wasn’t just his appearance, but his soul as well.

Finally, he could head to the atrium and our arrangement could commence. I was no longer in my prep room, but at the top of the stairs, waiting for him to put the final piece of my masterpiece in place.

I also loved making a show of everything and the completion of this piece was no exception. I had the lights and confetti all in place for my grand entrances.

“It - is - accomplished!  
Let me see it.  
My God ... my God, my God. It's ... it's beautiful!”

I wiped my tears of pride as away as I turned to this equally beautiful creature that was about to become my next masterpiece.

He looked expectantly at me. He wanted to leave, to continue his mission. Ryan wasn’t going anywhere. This grand escapade could wait a little longer.

I stepped close to him and leaned in toward him. He tried to shy away, but it mattered not.

I whispered, “Would you kindly, sleep for a while.”

His eyes shot open before closing and he collapsed onto the floor. I smiled sadly because that meant my suspicion was true. This beautiful being was Andrew Ryan’s baby. I wonder if Ryan even realizes.

It mattered not. For it was time to get to work on my next masterpiece.

***

A few hours later, Atlas had found a way into Fort Frolic. I had just enough to put the finally touches before going to give the blond brute a hard time.

“Wow, today is just full of wonderful surprises,” I chimed into the radio.

He instantly replied, “Where the hell is Jack, you powder faced fruit tart!”

“Temper, Temper,” I hummed, “Your errand boy and my newest inspiration is waiting for you in Fleet Hall.”

Before I could say anything else, he pocketed his radio and took off. He entered the hall and ran from room to room.

When he finally entered the correct room, his breath hitched at the sight before him.

The room was painted a soft light blue and in the center was bed with white silk sheets. My recent subject was wrapped within the sheets. He was covered by nothing else. Also within the room were paintings of the different images the little moth had had my muse cook up. The whole scene was the wet dream of innocence.

Atlas cautiously approached the bed. It was quite humorous seeing this loud troop rallying brute silenced by the sight of this beauty. Maybe I didn’t give him enough credit on his ability to appreciate art.

I decided I had tortured him enough, “There he is, Atlas. Sweep thy beauty away and leave me to continue my work.”

“Oh, are you sure I’m allowed removed a piece,” he snapped back.

I could only chuckle because Atlas could not deny it and preach till the end of time about how crazy he thought I was, but in the end this one piece silenced him.  
Atlas gently picked up my little moth and left without another word, but the image of Atlas holding him like that inspired another painting….. Damn him.


End file.
